« The King killed the garden that day.
With his bare hands he started, and with his bare, bloodied hands he
finished. He tore up every flower, he tore up every shrub. His hands ripped
roses from the ground and threw branches into the gravel. His feet crushed
tiny flowers barely born. And he threw it all into the black abyss of the
concrete canyons of the city. The ladies and gentlemen put their
masks, and shrank away in fear. Pesher, the gardener, simply , lying dirty
in the ruins of his flower-clock. On the streets of the , men and women
shuffled nervously in dull-colored coats that hid bodies. They did
not know that the King was above them, murdering a . They did not know
that the gardener was crying.
Until the flowers fell.
And the streets of the city were filled with colors seldom seen, and
fresh earth and mist and dancing bugs with glittering golden wings. For
the first time, the people smiled, and the women put flowers in their hair,
and the lovers laughed about everything.»
(Excerpt from 
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